MY KENYAN DIARY : CHARLES JAMES
by Kuiakaituhi
Summary: Remembering what to tell Molly about his Kenyan tour gets really tricky when the days are so action packed and often downright dangerous. James has started a diary and today is writing about Georgie Lane and her work with a local boy. He knows that Molly has taught him a great deal about what is important. Thanks to Tony Grounds and the BBC, So far, so good!
1. Chapter 1

**Kenyan Diary: Captain Charles James**

 _Here I go, new series, new characters, very tempting to make wild guesses about the direction Tony Grounds will take. I felt I was in familiar territory with some parts of Episode 1, sensing Molly's influence on Captain James, even though we are told she's back in Afghan. I hope Qaseem is close and watching over her._

 _Early Days in the Camp_

I am missing Molly more than I thought possible. especially as we have been under the pump from the moment we arrived here and my focus has had to be totally on our work. I'm hoping that I can make use of what little free time I get to jot down some of the things that catch my attention so that I can tell her about them when I see her again in six weeks.

I had been warned that we soldiers were hated by the Somalis but I was not really ready for the degree of antipathy we were shown as we drove the troop carriers towards the hospital. The ugly face of terrorist activity was shown to us today, with the kidnapping of one of the key personnel from the hospital and the destruction of much of the interior of the facility. The irrationality of the mob who do stuff like this never fails to amaze me. The old, old story about cutting off your nose to spite your face. And the other one about biting the hand that feeds you.

So we're in the wrecked hospital, some seriously wounded locals already attended to, all sorts of racket going on outside and some of the platoon bring in a boy, probably about ten, and this kid has a mouth full of maggots. It stinks! An infected tooth which is fly blown and must be excruciatingly painful, poor kid. Lane sets about dealing with the boy, his father who seems to be a local of some importance and the lads who brought him in. I watch her organise all these fellows into helping, or at least not hindering, and in a few minutes she has the maggots and rotten tooth out, the boy shot up with antibiotics and the squaddies eating out of the palm of her hand.

And here's me standing at the back of the bed, watching and admiring her work while I keep an eye out for any trouble. Just for a moment, I am back in Afghan, standing outside Molly's clinic while she insists on attending to a young girl's wounded eye. What am I doing? Why, I'm ordering her around, insisting that the girl should go elsewhere, because this is not Army Regulations, is it? Sohail is there too, hassling her and even Qaseem is acting all anxious. The girl's mother is protesting loudly as well and in the midst of this, my Molly calmly ignores us all, fixing the girl's face until Sohail snatches her away. We didn't know the significance of all of this till later, but I still remember Molly's focus on her work above all else; at that moment she was there to look after a frightened and hurt youngster and she totally ignored me. Not for the first or last time, I might add. 

Lane knows we are here to do a job now, in Kenya and I am aware that she is doing just that in pretty much the same style as my Molly in Afghan a few years ago. They are capable, competent, focussed people, these Army medics, and they are crucial to our success in the field.

Another place and time in Afghan. We have gone back to Bastion and Molly and I have ended up in my quarters, Risky move, that. Didn't cover myself in glory that time, either. But before I cocked it up totally when Smurf turned up, I managed to tell Molly that she had changed me. Under her influence, watching her, admiring her work and her compassion and falling hopelessly in love with her, though I didn't tell her that yet, something fundamental shifted inside me. The Bossman, he of regulations, correct uniform and unbending adherence to the way things are done in the army had begun to understand the power of looking after the small things as they happened. If I did that and cared for individual people as their needs happened, then the big things would surely fall into place.

I told her that was what I had learned from her and she was astounded. "Really?" she had looked up at me with those liquid green eyes and to this day I don't know how I had resisted pulling her into my arms and kissing her till my head spun.

So tod,here in Kenya, I understood how powerful her lesson had been. Of course, our work here is to help and that includes attending to individual medical needs. Today I was privileged to watch Lane, in the middle of the drama going on in this battered hospital, focus intently on the immediate needs of a boy in a great deal of pain. And I was able to watch over her while she did so without barking orders or getting in her way. And to witness her patience and her skill. Lane _ **is**_ the ideal person for this mission.

Thank you, Molly, my love, for teaching me something of the power of compassion. I am a better man because of you.

 _ **I would be really glad of your reviews. It's a bit scary starting to write when this series is so new and undeveloped as yet. That's why I'm making a connection between past and present. I think they're intertwined. Please let me know what you think. I'll probably make further diary entries from time to time. Fellow Antipodeans, I found the episode…you can, too. Contact me through the usual channels.**_


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

MY KENYAN DIARY: CHARLES JAMES

 _ **I imagine that Charles will need to grab whatever moments he can in order to keep his diary and that his entries will be quite short most of the time. He's just about to head off in search of Lane.**_

Just scribbling a couple of lines before we head out to look for Lane. Am all togged up in combat gear, Bergen and gun beside me on my cot, waiting for the call to brief the men in the ops tent. Still some work to be done by the intelligence crew tracking the possible whereabouts of the Al Shabaab insurgents who have her.

I'm struggling to keep my full attention on this mission. Have just caught up on the BBC news that there is a new outbreak of fighting in Kabul and am really worried about Molly's safety. Will try to contact Qassem when we get back from this mission and check up. If I talk directly to her, I'm likely to lose my cool and to start blubbering like a scared kid.

I never knew she had the power to make me cry, me, big, old tough Captain James. As I watched her walk down the aisle to me, tiny thing that she is, on Dave's arm, looking so beautiful in her sleek white gown, with the biggest smile I have ever seen, I felt my heart stop for just a fleeting moment. Out of nowhere, a tear from each eye ran down my cheek and I truly understood what tears of joy are. When she reached me and Dave put her hand in mine she murmured,

"Me, I've always loved a man in his Number Ones with all them sparkly bits and swords and things, Bossman. You look amazing," And she reached up and wiped my tears away, this time with a small smile, just for me. Even in her killer heels, it was quite a long reach for her and my best man, Elvis Harte, raised his eyebrows at me and then winked at Molly as he caught on to what was happening.

"I love you, Charles," she whispered.

"You are just so beautiful," I replied. The minister cleared his throat and my tears stopped at the absolute joy I felt.

Fuck, I have to get my head back to the situation with Lane. These Al Shabaab fuckers are likely to think that it's a good idea to kill a pretty English woman, probably after parading her in front of TV cameras and getting her to say shit about the British Army leaving Kenya . Those intel boys are taking too long. We need to get going.

Just thinking back to Molly again. First time out on patrol at the FOB, the Afghan insurgents had intel that there was a woman soldier in the new platoon and they targeted her straight away. She was terrified of course, but it was her first time under fire. These Somali insurgents have used the same tactics, taking Lane rather than any of the men. She's had a lot of experience so I hope she can hold her cool till we get there. Get there we will, no terrorist bastards are going to get away with hurting one of my soldiers like this.

Will need to finish this shortly and go find out where that intel is at. We MUST get underway.

Oh, shit, Mansfield Mike. Haven't had any news about him yet, will phone the hospital from the intel base. Hope he's OK. The lads would be devastated if he's been killed. Don't know how I would tell Molly. Mansfield was one of her favourites. She looked after his terrible Celtic skin and defended him against the others when he claimed his mother said he looked like Prince Harry and they all mocked him. I'v always thought he's a bit like the character that Ian Lavender played in "Dad's Army", that mummy's boy, Private Pike. Though he was toughening up on this mkission.

Don't think I can let her know if the news is bad. Even if they no longer qualify as "Under 5's", they're still her boys, "numpties" she calls them. Me, I think "louts" is closer to the mark and "loudmouths" particularly in Fingers' case.

Got to go…

 _ **I really did appreciate the reviews for his first diary entry. Of course he's thinking about Molly all the time…he hasn't been married very long and I'll bet the long nights are difficult, for them both. Please continue to review, that's what keeps me going when I think my stories are a bit trivial**_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

My KENYAN DIARY; CHARLES JAMES

{Mark 2)

 _ **What a ride Episode 2 was and how lovely to look at were CJ and Elvis. Seriously, the storyline raced along and the violence, sadly, was only too believable, given what we frequently see and hear in the media. The violence I applauded, though, was Georgie clouting Elvis in the helicopter.**_

A day I don't want to repeat any time soon. I'm totally stuffed tonight. Too much adrenalin, I guess, though we all did brilliantly in the end. Lane was incredible. I'm in awe of her gutsiness. I gather the scene in the helicopter at the end of it all was something to behold. Apparently when Elvis took off his mask and she saw who her "hero" was, she up and cracked him across the face. Good bloody job, actually.

We were good mates, but things have been strained between the two of us since he got me to do his dirty work when he left Georgie at the altar. I'll never forget the look of devastation on her face when I told her he couldn't go through with the wedding. She looked absolutely beautiful when I arrived and it took ten seconds to transform her into a sobbing mess. What could I say when she asked me why he was doing this to her. How would I know? The bastard had really dropped me in it.

I could never do this to Molly, but then again, I probably love her a lot more than Elvis did Georgie. He's always been a bit flippant with women, pretty shallow actually. Bares his chest, bats his eyelashes, flips that bloody hair of his and then talk about "Me Tarzan, You Jane!" He's got it down pat, all right.

When he turned up this morning all Gung-Ho with his troops with totally crass names like Spunky, for fucks sake, my first thought was "Fuck me, this is just what we need, I don't think." I thought he was in Syria, so I didn't ask them to not send him when I asked for SAS support. My bad, I guess but I get bloody sick of the dramas that follow Elvis around. Shouldn't have to deal with this kind of shit, so I told him how I felt. I reminded him he'd broken Georgie's heart and was the very last soldier who should be tackling this job and he came back at me saying he would fix the damage. Can't believe how superficial he is, as if it would just be like gluing the pieces of a broken vase together. Does he not get it, even now?

Trouble is, he is still my mate, though Molly would give it to me with both barrels if I told her that. She's always been a non-subscriber to his fan club and was absolutely septic when he humiliated Georgie, who is **her** good mate. She was at the wedding and saw for herself what the effect was on Georgie. It was just six weeks before our wedding and I could pick up that she was feeling insecure about us. Over and over again I told her that nothing could keep me from her on our day and that I was actually afraid she would bail out on me. The lovemaking that followed most times we reassured one another was mind-blowing, which is not unusual for Molly and me. We are bloody great together in bed. Perhaps Elvis hasn't found that yet, I don't know.

"Ha!" she'd said after the wedding day that wasn't. " Never did trust him,. Charles. Don't like him. The only person he's in love wif is the one in the mirror. And I hate it when he calls you Charlie. Me, I only like people to call you Charles and me to call you "Bossman" when I want to get up your nose or I'm pissed off with you."

He did a good job today, though. There'll be a lot of cleaning up tomorrow, so I'll need to get some sleep. Kiki's death is going to leave a big gap in the hospital and there's a lot to do to get it up and running again.

I'll have to see Lane first thing in the morning to work out what she's going to need to get through this. Certainly a debriefing and she might have some other needs I haven't a clue about because I'm a hopeless male. I hope she isn't holding herself responsible for Kiki's death. Those mad fuckers are the only ones to blame. She's had time to clean herself up and get some food and fluid into her. Guess I'll head off now and check up to see if she's rehydrating OK and has got someone with her, probably that woman from the hospital.

And I'll check up on Elvis. He should leave her alone tonight. And what the fuck is this "Laura" tattoo on his arm all about?

 _ **Please read and review. I think I'm beginning to enjoy the series now. I hope you**_ _**all are, too.**_


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

MY KENYAN DIARY: CHARLES JAMES

(Later same day, or rather, early hours, next morning)

 _ **All sorts of mucky thoughts in my head after that hot as shower scene in Episode 2. So am delving into CJ's head 'cos he's having trouble sleeping tonight. No wonder, what with all that's been going on plus some distracting memories about Molly.**_

Cannot get back to sleep. Don't think I was properly asleep, anyhow. So wired still when I put my head on the pillow that I found it very hard to drop off and then my head was filled with shades and shadows and all manner of people I can sort of recognise but not quite A fugue state, I found out from my First Year Psychology studies. Used to happen in my early teens, especially if I was under stress from something like exams, or finishing an assignment for Maths, which I hated, but needed to get into Sandhurst, or worrying about Rugby trials at the start of the season. Mum said I sometimes talked in my sleep and many a night I woke up with her arms around my shoulder and her soothing me like a small kid. It was a bit embarrassing at times, but even when I was fifteen or so, Mum's magic touch helped me settle down.

I think us tough guys need our mothers more than we care to admit even when we are so-called grown up. Mine helped a lot when the first girl I loved dumped me at age sixteen! Thought I was going to die. Mum made me hot sweet tea and gave me some of the shortbread she'd just baked. And a hug. And didn't say there were plenty of other fish in the sea. Or tell me I'd get over her. I was on the road to recovery quite quickly after that. For the life of me I can't even remember the girl's name now. Smart Mum!

I still go for the biscuit tins when I'm stressed. Nowadays, if I do that, Molly slaps me on the hand and tells me I'll end up with a fat arse. And she won't love me any more because one of her absolutely favourite things is to grab my arse in both hands and then stroke it. Usually that ends up in all sorts of exciting consequences. If we're not already in bed we end up there, or on the sheepskin rug or against the wall or in the shower or... Shit! I better get my mind on other things asap. If any one came in here right now it would be too embarrassing to stand up, what with the tent in my boxers. Mansfield has already called me a knobhead. At this moment he would be absolutely correct.

I always put the lid back on the bikky tin when she tells me I'll get a fat arse. She has some really creative ways to reward me for being a good boy…

I'm wondering whether Lane needs her mother right now. When I checked up on her earlier this evening, she was sound asleep. She had looked totally stuffed after she got off the chopper and headed straight for the female showers. The guys said she was careful with her rehydration, just sipping to start with, then she drank a couple of bottles of water with electrolytes in it. Low potassium levels can cause problems with hearts especially after an ordeal like the one she has been through. When I left the lads were sitting outside her tent keeping watch. I think she's won them over now. She'd crashed out from exhaustion.

Monk has shut down his sexist talk after she gave it to him with both barrels when he called her Sugartits, then got him to help her with the maggoty mouthed kid. I was a bit concerned that they wouldn't accept her in the beginning mainly because the old hands who served in Afghan love Molly so much. I told Molly I was uneasy about this and my smart girl sent Brains an email (and forwarded it to me later so he wouldn't know I had it). Georgie is her mate, she told him and he was to pass on her message to the guys, including the new ones. If they gave Georgie any shit, she said, then she, Molly, personally, would deal to their tackle in much the same way as she had heard that Georgie had already promised Monk she would deal to his cock should he step over the line again. These two are not ever likely to take prisoners amongst their fellow soldiers when it comes to being disrespected and I think the lads have the message from Georgie, as well as Molly, well and truly on board by now.

Tomorrow is likely to be tricky, what with Georgie needing a debrief at least and probably some crisis counselling, which she is bound to turn down, knowing her. I've decided to pull rank over this one and have asked HQ to send us a user friendly Army shrink with PTSD experience. Due in by chopper at 07.00 hours. Am I going to insist she has an assessment at least on the basis that she could be a risk to the health of the others here if she's not straight in the head. If she's not, who could blame her given what she's been through?

Really do need to get some sleep. Will try again, now that the storm in my shorts has blown over. Amazing woman who can do that to me from thousands of miles away.

 _ **I'm having a lot of fun writing this. Your reviews are really helping. I've become aware that at my advanced age I have a really dirty mind. Please keep telling me it's OK. If the nuns who taught me knew about this, they'd tell me to REIGN it in or else I'd be on my way to Hell. Perhaps that's why my other favourite programme is "Lucifer". Has anyone else noticed how hot (pardon the weak joke) Tom Ellis is?**_


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

KENYAN DIARY: CHARLES JAMES

 _ **Charles is in reflective made as he greets the new day after what has been a restless night. Today's agenda will require all of his skills and experience, so he is building his strength by letting his mind wander towards the things that he really values. I like to think that a poet is one aspect of Charles' personality, that he is a Romantic at heart.**_

Ever since my fourth tour to Afghanistan I make a point of getting up to see in the new day when I'm away from Molly. I feel closer to her, as if she is again sitting quietly next to me on the running board of the Mastiff at the back of the FOB. While the others still slept, we would get up, shower and get ready for the day an hour or so before we really had to. She and I would meet there on the perimeter, pretending that we were just friends having a quiet conversation.

God, I was an expert at deceiving myself. She was no friend, this beautiful little Cockney who was far too young for me and who I compromised every morning as I met her in secret like that. I was utterly charmed by her, couldn't get enough of her green fire eyes, her London accent, the smile matching the Afghan sun rising behind her. Here I was, this Sandhurst trained paragon of an officer hanging on her every word, some of them indecipherable admittedly, wanting desperately to cup her face in my hands and to put my finger over her mouth so she would hush and I could kiss her. I craved that kiss, even though I knew if it happened and we were seen, that would be the end of both of our military careers. It was only my conscience as the older, responsible soldier that held me back in the end.

So we talked, Molly and I, about our lives before Afghan and our growing up, about my love of rugby and poetry and hers of West Ham United and East Enders on the tele. Two people couldn't have come from more different places but that didn't matter one iota to me. I had never felt like this before. Even though there had been many women pass through my life this was the first time I knew I absolutely could not bear it if this one did not stay. I was, for the first time, truly in love. I had been from the time she turned her face towards me on the tarmac at Brize Norton. I felt as if she owned me.

I love Molly so much that it hurts. Even now, I want to boast to my friends that she loves me back. They get bored with me, tease me, tell me that I'm fooling myself. Elvis even suggested that she was deluded if she loved me, bastard that he is to women. I shouldn't criticise him really, I still feel ashamed when I remember that I didn't trust Molly with the most important information about my life before her, my marriage and separation. And, of course, about Sam who is a big part of my life and who now adores Molly.

Now I bring this diary out each morning into the dawn and am surprising myself at how much I am writing each day and working lots of stuff out. I'll keep going for now. I'm enjoying writing again.

Just looked at the date and realised that it's the time of the equinox. Back home it's the autumn one, here it's the spring one. Back to front, different halves of the world. Still means the same though. Everywhere in the world, there is exactly the same amount of time between sunrise and sunset, just for two days a year with six months in between. How great it would be if all this fighting stopped, if even for one day so we all could think about being equal in this one thing that happens across the whole planet. And realised that we all need the sun and the sunrise, just to exist.

Back home in Bath, there will be lots of New Age people, druids and shamans and whatever passing through the city on their way to the ceremonies at Stonehenge, I always wonder how the old time pagans would have felt if they had been made to buy a ticket to go. Funny how humans are always looking for a way to make a profit out of everything. Is greed the real reason for wars? I 've seen many dead people and often think of a line I read somewhere once, can't remember where. It went, "There are no pockets in a shroud," Chilling, but true.

This sunrise is spectacular. It started out pale, pale grey, cool and muted. Now it is yellow with remnants of the grey floating like wisps of torn gauze across the face of the fireball that is the rising sun. The gauze is fading quite fast and, look, here are three giraffe ambling across the horizon. They are impossible creatures with their long necks and long, curling, black eyelashes that my Molly would die for, I suspect. They are magnificent and always make me smile as they move gracefully, almost with disdain for us humans.

I wish Molly was here to share this glorious sight with me. I can almost see her clapping her hands in delight, like a little kid at the zoo. One minute she can be a brave and gobbie squaddie with a vocabulary that could make a twenty-year veteran blush. The next, she's a softie with all her "little bleeder" brothers and sisters climbing all over her, all of them giggling and tickling.

I think these two sides of her personality are what blend to make her such an effective soldier and medic, and I think that Lane has a very similar makeup. Both of them have been able to deal with really tough shit in their personal lives and it hasn't negatively affected their performance in the field at all. If anything, their capacity to take the tough shit has been their saving grace. That took amazing gutsiness from Lane to endure being taken hostage and to escape those Al Shabaab monsters. She's going to be waking soon, so must head over to her quarters to see how she is.

Today won't be easy for Lane. I had a déjà vu moment today as Elvis hauled her up on the winch to the chopper. As they whirled around at one stage, I almost expected to see Molly's face, and Smurf's beneath those helmets instead of Georgie and Elvis.

 _ **I do appreciate the reviews that you post. Please keep on doing that, it reassures me when I feel tentative about my writing. I think this piece is probably about the calm before the storm that is likely to unleash in Episode 3.**_


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

MY KENYAN DIARY: CHARLES JAMES

 _ **I've needed to do some serious thinking about Elvis and how I feel about him. When I was a young thing a thousand or so years ago, I met a couple of guys who were probably from earlier generations of his large Italian, probably Catholic family. (My breed was Irish Catholicism, which brought a whole lot of its own particular challenges. Even in rural New Zealand, where the potato famine planted lots of "Micks" as my grandfather called them, and himself.) These self-styled Italianate super studs had the advantage of soulful black eyes, were deliciously buff and tanned with their shirts off, knew how to chat us all up and had absolutely no consciences whatsoever. I think more than one or two girls were left literally "holding the baby." I have an instinctive mistrust of the Elvises of the world who are just as capable of hurting their male friends as they are of using the women in their lives.**_

Fingers and the lads were sitting outside Lane's quarters waiting for me to turn up. Some of the common sense I'd drilled into them over two tours, at long last. Hallelujah! They had called for back- up from one of the other medics in camp when they realised, as soon as Lane came out of the shower, that she was struggling. No way would they let her stay in camp, only the hospital in Mombasa would do, so they called for support from the whole medical team who overrode Lane's insistence that she was fine. Being watched over, bed rest, rehydration through a drip, a quiet room and visitors vetted carefully made more sense to everybody except Lane but in the end she was too traumatised to offer more than a token protest.

"Sorry, Boss. We knew you had a lot to do after the action, so we waited here to tell you where Geo… Lane was. Didn't want you to worry she wasn't in her tent," explained Fingers.

Good thinking. The strategy team needed her to be on the ball as soon as. We all had to pick her brain for details about the bastards who had taken her so we can find them and take them…OUT!

So went to the hospital to see how she was doing. God, she looked weary and pale, though they had her rehydration under control by the time I got there. There was a certain look about her, a kind of incompleteness as if she were not quite all present in her body. I was reminded of how I had felt when I came to in hospital after the emergency surgery on my injured leg. It was a kind of emotional absence, a giving up sort of thing, hard to find the right words, even now. But I know it when I see it, just as Molly saw it and understood I was not there in my entirety.

When finally Smurf had fucked off and my Molly was alone with me, all I had wanted was to touch her and had gripped her hand hard and held on as if to do so gave me a chance to gather myself up. As she touched my face and smoothed my hair back, in some mysterious way I felt my disparate pieces reconnecting and as I began to murmur to her I started to heal. There was not time for much murmurring as the door burst open and the other love of my life, Sam, fell in the door desperate to show me the message inked on his arm.

Then came The Ice Queen. With a chilly half smile she scanned the room and I think she caught on immediately to what was happening to me and to Molly, to us together. For the first time since Rebecca and I had separated, I understood I really was finished with her and another part of me fell into place at last.

But back to Lane…how is it every time I talk or even think about a woman my mind redirects itself to Molly? Immediately I saw Lane I recognised the emotional blank-out in her face. I was worried. My message to her was in two parts. She is an excellent soldier and in the matter just concluded, she had excelled. I am sure that anything other than excellence would not have satisfied her. So I told her how proud of her I was, but also that she must not take the offer of psychological help lightly.

Everything that had hurt her this time would need to be shared and wept over and excoriated. Layers of memory and trauma need to be exposed and abraded, if deep wounds are to heal. Blisters on the heart need to be cleaned and dressed, even if they are not easily visible, just as much as those caused by new army issue boots on our feet. How well I know the healing power of kind, skilful hands on bloodied feet (here is Molly yet again!) and the banter which gives normality to the process. Not for the first time, and it surprises me, for I'm not normally a religious man, I think of the Magdalene, who washed Jesus' torn and weary feet and dried them with her long, lustrous hair. I wonder what words passed between them as she carried out this humble task? I hope she gave him cheek and made him smile, just as Molly did that first time she tended my bleeding, and if I am to believe her, smelly, feet.

I'm rambling here, but I'm allowed to! It's my bloody diary and I can say what I like, can't I?

"Go away, Molly, just for a bit, into the shadows. I'm talking about Lane. You're her mate, you won't mind, will you?" I'm sure she doesn't, but she keeps on disturbing my concentration…

What I desperately wanted Lane to understand that she should tell the psychologist who specialised in supporting army personnel with PTSD, everything, but EVEYTHING she remembered about her capture. This was not me being The Concerned Captain, though I know I looked to be altogether on the surface. This was Charles James, the bullied schoolboy who had become the traumatically wounded soldier. And, God help me, the feelings were the same now, at age twenty- nine as they had been at age seven at public school.

It wasn't until I bought into the idea that I needed to start trusting someone enough to spill all of it, and not just from being shot by Badrai. All of my suppressed guilt and grief over the failure of my marriage surfaced, too, as did other hurts I had successfully buried from my long ago past. My therapy went on for a very long time, until I judged myself ready to start my life again. And ready to give myself fully to my beautiful, kind and patient Molly. Over those months, I discovered a Motor Mouth Molly, who teased and bullied me and pulled and pushed me towards a new life.

I know a lot of Lane's history and her hurts. She IS an excellent soldier, but I sense the pain that lies just below the surface. And she knows I know. And made it clear to me that she wants to close the door on the past and move on. I just tried to get through to her how bloody crucial it will be for her to not hold on to her hurts until they poison her body and her soul. I was so much in danger of that, I wouldn't wish it on any one. Especially someone I respect and admire as much as I do Lane.

So I'm really laying it out for Georgie and out of the corner of my eye, I spy Elvis, looking for all the world like a beaten puppy dog. Leaning on the doorframe like a matinee idol from a crappy sixties rock and roll movie, he's giving her the soulful cocker spaniel eye and I think he's waiting for me to leave. I might be wrong about his intentions but I don't think so. He can swan in, sweep her up in his arms and wait for her to tell him that all is forgiven. He'll probably say, tossing his hair back soulfully, that he knows she didn't mean to hit him in the chopper, it was just a reflex. Once she knows the true reason why he stood her up at their wedding and didn't even have the fucking courage to tell her why he was hurting her so badly and humiliating her in front of all their families and friends, then she'll fall into his arms, tell him she understands and all will be fucking forgiven!

Not even! I asked her if she wanted to see him and she was cuttingly clear about wanting me to tell him to go. Which I did and he went, looking even more like a sad puppy dog. I recognised that by this time I was in a fucking fury with Elvis. Who gave him permission to treat people this way? He was just a spoiled brat who had absolutely no idea what he had done to this beautiful woman who had loved him more than he deserved and who now had other plans for her life. Had he even given her a thought in the last two years, I wondered, up until he read the documentation that told him who he and his SAS buddies were supposed to rescue?

And what about the girl he so casually dumped two years ago? Has he given any thought to how it must have been for her to be pregnant, alone and unable to tell him, the father of her unborn child?

I almost understand now the exquisite revenge Debs took on him, presenting him with Laura on the day he was due to marry someone else. If it weren't for the pain that was caused to so many people, I would incline to thinking "Serve you right." But then again, I'm not a nasty bastard, am I?

I need to do some serious thinking about where I stand with Elvis and our friendship.

 _ **I didn't find Episode 3 on YouTube till Saturday and found Captain James needed quite a lot of time to reflect on what had happened before he could write his diary entry this week. It was very busy, so more time is needed for the second entry, hopefully tomorrow.**_


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

MY KENYAN DIARY: CHARLES JAMES

 _ **Can't believe I've sat up all night writing this so it reaches you Blighty lot who have been reading CJ's journal before Episode 4 screens in the North. Still annoyed with Elvis, but softening a little…**_

Watching the SAS lads doing their human pyramid thing on the beach reminded me of why I utterly refuse to join the local gym in Bath. Even though I could do with extra work at the weekends when I'm not on tour, to keep on top of the muscle weakness where I took a bullet in the leg, I decided a long time ago to make do with the fitness sessions at work and to do lots of stretching at home.

Anyway, I get heaps of aerobic exercise and increase my heart rate every night with the support and willing participation of my wife, who is wildly enthusiastic about our particular form of fitness maintenance. Fuck, I hope she never finds this diary or I'll get, as she calls it, "a proper rinsing". She'd tease me forever. I could, of course, get her to behave herself by threatening to cut back on the frequency and duration of our daily exercise sessions back...As if!

Anyway, back to the pyramid. Those Rambo types were posturing in front of 2 Section much like the Lycra Lads at the Bath Fitness Centre. What was missing was the floor to ceiling mirror so they could admire their reflections as they posed. And, of course, check to see how many of the local ladies were watching them.

I had a flashback to a tour party a few months ago who would have been delighted to provide them with an audience. A mob of fortyish women, possibly fiftyish, the kind who yell and clap, drink copious amounts of Prosecco and stuff money up the trunks of lads dancing at male strip shows, were on an excursion and one of their stops was at Pirbright where they were supposed to be researching the Army training programmes. From what I could see the main area of research seemed to be the physical prowess of our soldiers, and though they pretended to be watching the exercises, I had the distinct impression that what they were really keen to see were fit young bodies in low-slung combats, mostly from the back. Lots of i-phones out taking photos, plenty of digging each other in the ribs, pointing and laughing, actually quite embarrassing. I even heard that a small group of them, like a raiding party, visited the shower blocks and ogled some of the lads. Luckily most of the boys had towels around their nether regions, but one or two of the "well fit" boys, as Molly would call them, reported having their arses patted. The ring leader was someone with a very strange name, think it was something like "Wuff", or "Woof" or something similar.

Went inside my quarters, grateful that I wasn't responsible for this lot who behaved worse than a class of fourteen year olds from the local technical school. Actually found myself blushing at the suggestive snickering from this rabble. Think they came from something called Mumsnet and apparently had become interested in the army by watching some sort of random BBC programme. Was I ever glad to see them get back on their bus and go!

Anyway, back to Kenya. Apart from the SAS circus, to which Fingers was heard threatening to join up, this causing hilarity amongst the lads and much changing of coin, apparently bets having been laid as to how long it would be before he did so, today was pretty busy.

First the brass wanted to debrief Lane about her experiences with the Al Shabaab bastards so that we could gather as much intel as possible before going after them. I was astounded at the amount of detail she was able to give us, at how much she had been able to commit to memory, given that she was under such stress. The absolutely best part of our debriefing work with Lane was that we were able to identify the radicalised Brit who had been the most vicious towards her of all the insurgents. We wanted very badly to know who he was so we could deal to him. Lane had behaved like the consummate soldier she is. I am very proud of her and I told her so.

So after we've finished intel work the SAS boys and Lane have enough to take care of the insurgent hideout. The lads and I find out we have two days R&R before heading home. One of my favourite and very rare tasks is showering them with beer money. Just for a little bit of one day I am probably one of the most popular men in the British Army as I throw them the chits for the bar.

People are relaxing, some in the sun, some in the shade, Lane by herself in a quiet, cool space inside the hotel when Elvis makes a move. Does he not get it? There is clearly some dialogue which ends with Lane storming off and Elvis sporting the sad puppy dog look once again. In spite of my frustration with Elvis, there is still a part of me that feels a little sorry for him, so once more I try and talk some sense into him. Surely he must have some idea of how much he hurt Georgie and doesn't he need to let her get on with her new life? I remind him that he has made choices that have put him where he is now and he is responsible for those choices. It really is time for him to grow up, move on, make a new life. He is still questioning the choices he has made and I stress that he cannot change the past but must do his best to get on with it. I fucking feel like Grandpa, lecturing the kids. We're supposed to be on an equal footing and I'm bloody sick of this nurse maid shit with Elvis.

Above all, doesn't he get it that her feelings will be all jumbled up because he has blown into town and rescued her after two years of silence? And she still doesn't know why he didn't turn up to the wedding. So, leave it alone, Elvis. He nods, but it's tentative. The problem with this spoiled SAS boy, I think, is that he knows when HE is hurting, but has still no clue when he hurts others.

Wouldn't you know it, we couldn't possibly have a relaxing time without some fucking drama or other. Finally, all have settled down to veg out for the afternoon when a random insurgent begins shooting the place up. Elvis is, of course, right in there, gets shot and ends up with Georgie attending to him and another wounded man. I'm just so bloody sick of all this shooting stuff that I can't be bothered writing much about it at this stage. Except that this time Elvis ends up at Mombasa Hospital, apparently with a cracked rib. I'm not so sure how much I trust the hospital, though. One of our other medics was concerned that they were shown the wrong X RAY. Why? Because, she said this one had boobs, and Elvis might very well have an exceptional body, but moobs he most definitely does not have! Anyway, he's patched up and comes back to the hotel.

After this latest piece of drama, sleep is hard for me to find tonight. I'm still strung out, so am glad I have this diary to write my thoughts and feelings into. I've wandered out, in T-shirt, combats and bare feet to relax in the cool breeze and to enjoy some rare solitude while I write. No-one else about though quite a few lights are still on. It must be quite strange for the squaddies to have individual rooms here instead of the usual barracks. Perhaps they miss the rustling, farting, snoring companionship of army sleeping arrangements, who knows.

I notice that Georgie and Elvis have both got their balcony lights on. What idiot who did the room allocation put them next to one another? Though how would anyone but a very few of us know their history? Wait… I can just make out their shapes, each on their own balcony. Elvis is leaning over and seems to be talking to Georgie, but she has her back to him and her arms folded against her chest. Still angry, still holding out? I find myself hoping that he gets a chance to tell Georgie about his reasons for not turning up to their wedding, about his little girl and the choice he was presented with on that day. Personally, I thought his behaviour was weak and I could still kick myself for not refusing to do his dirty work, for being the messenger boy. Molly still berates me for letting Elvis use me. She does NOT like him!

Will just take a turn around the buildings and then go into my pit. Bloody weary now, need to go and dream about my beautiful wife.

Can't believe what I am seeing! Bloody Lane, in what looks like her knickers and a T-shirt, AND her army issue boots, climbing over the rail between her room and Elvis's. I'm thinking he's managed to pull it off, the big reconciliation. Batted his eyelids, run his hands through his hair, cried a bit? Silly, silly Lane, if she's fallen for it so easily he can get her into his pit right away. I suspect they've been having a bloody hard time keeping their hands off one another, though.

And who the fuck am I to talk? If that were Molly up there and we'd had a falling out, even one as big as these two had, I'd be scaling the drain pipes to reach her.

I'm just beginning to feel a bit sorry for safe, boring, nice Dr Jamie back in Manchester. Something tells me that part of Lane's story is not going to follow any kind of script.

Fuck this, I'm out! Not saying any more, not offering an opinion etc. etc. Let them sort it out for themselves from now on.

 _ **Thank you so much for your reviews, those of you who are sneaking looks at CJ's diary as he writes it! Seriously, I really appreciate your comments, they keep me writing. I am enjoying connecting pieces of the old with the new. Please keep letting me know what you think.**_


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

MY KENYAN DIARY: CHARLES JAMES 

_**Doctor Jamie irritates the hell out of me. I have met controlling men like him and have learned to let them rattle on whilst I do what is right for me. I hope that's what Georgie does in Episode 5.**_

Probably should stop calling this a Kenyan diary, seeing as we're back in Britain now. Still dealing with the after effects of our tour and some pretty full on possibilities unless we can be aware of what is happening around us and are ready to act very quickly if need be. I'll keep the label, though, till I can draw the line under the whole African episode, including these developments which are rapidly unfolding, both in Manchester and in London. It doesn't feel good, none of us in the officer ranks quite sure of what will be asked of us, or our men, in the near future.

After all, I began writing this diary so I could remember all the important stuff to tell Molly so she wouldn't think I was on safari for five weeks, being driven around game parks in the latest Land Rover, and sleeping in luxury lodges whilst she has been "minging", as she calls it, in the dust and extreme heat of Afghan. Hope she's been keeping some notes, too. It's been bloody near impossible to get an internet connection ever since we got to Africa and 'm finding it not much better now we're back in the UK.

She is in some hush hush God bloody forsaken village in the mountains teaching the local women how to look after their men who have been out fighting the Taliban yet again. It seems the bastards are on the rise once more in the countryside and even in Kabul where there has been quite a bit of terrorist activity. They multiply like bloody cockroaches, hidden from sight until the conditions are right when they swarm out to crawl all over their people, with their filthy hatred and brutality, all in the name of their so-called god. No self-respecting god would lay claim to these monstrous Talibanis who are prepared to terrorise their own people as much as they want to capture and torture Allied personnel, in the public eye, of course, on the tele!

I don't know how they can be stopped when they are spreading so rapidly all across the globe, their mullahs preaching jihad and recruiting young people who really have no place amongst them. These Muslim preachers who radicalise youngsters like the Manchester lad we have been pursuing have studied and understand young people very well, I think. Particularly those who may be isolated or not very sociable or not particularly successful. Capturing hearts and minds comes so easily by offering causes and heroics and action. I sometimes think some of these Abus and Hamids and Alis are desperate for something to believe in in the midst of a world which is so cynically focussed on getting stuff and holding on to it, no matter who is hurt along the way. They start off looking for a cause to follow and these radical clerics, especially those who know how to use modern technology, hook them with the promises of jihad on earth and paradise to follow. Then they reel the young people in, slowly but surely filling them up with slogans and promises and carefully selected quotes from the Koran until they are ready to do anything they are asked, even destroy themselves. It's truly terrifying.

Anyway, today's events. I'm at the Ministry of Defence being briefed on the latest intel about the terror cell with which we have been dealing, or think we have been dealing. I'm never quite sure which cockroaches have come out from whichever crack in the earth. I get called out of the briefing session because there is an urgent phone call from a Doctor Jamie Someone or Other. The receptionist is apologetic and sounds a bit scared I'll give her a hard time because they're only supposed to interrupt our meeting for emergencies. So, whoever this doctor is, he must have been very persuasive to get Moira, the receptionist who is extremely skilled at getting people to piss off, in the most polite and mannerly way, to buzz me and come out to take the call. I don't make the connection, mostly because I'm worried that something might be wrong in my family, Mum, Dad, Sam, even Molly in Afghanistan, god forbid any of them are ill or hurt.

Then I find out it's Lane's fiancée, who first of all asks nicely, then rachets up the pressure about needing to talk to me, asap. Straight away, my crap detectors are in gear, I don't like to be put under pressure, particularly by someone who must surely have an understanding of professional boundaries and the obligation to be present, uninterrupted at professional meetings. I wondered how he would feel if I insisted he come out of the operating theatre to speak with him, right there and then. However, because I am Lane's commanding officer and am concerned about her recovery I agree to meet him for a coffee at the lunch break. And to play nice. As if it's OK to call me out in the middle of an emergency situation, which he must surely know is happening him being Lane's fiancé.

Straight away I find myself disliking him. He's a fucking control freak, telling me what I should be doing regarding Lane's future. He's there to tell me that she's very ill and that I shouldn't be taking her to Syria. They're getting married, he tells me and I tell him that my wife is a serving soldier and it works for us, no reason why it shouldn't for them. That's not his agenda, however. I tell him that our psychologists are monitoring her recovery and that, anyhow, it's actually her decision to make. Then I pick up that he's very grateful that we rescued her and asks who was responsible. Again, the professional boundaries, Dr Jamie! I can't tell you that and you know very well why.

We wind up our coffee date rapidly. There are still a few minutes of my lunch hour left, so I wander over to the park and find an empty bench. Often it helps me to find my focus if I can just sit in the sun, close my eyes and let my random thoughts arrive so I can review them, then let them go and clear my head. That's important today, a clear head, we have a lot to get through this afternoon.

Surprisingly, I don't find Doctor Jamie at the forefront of my mental wanderings. It's Elvis who is there, and I find myself thinking out loud,

"What a bloody idiot.! How could he let her go? He could have found a better way…" I realise I'm talking to myself out loud when an old lady who is strolling past taps me on the shoulder and asks,

"Are you all right?" I reassure her and shake my head to clear out my mental dross. What I realise I've worked out is that Elvis, for all his dramatics and risky behaviour is a far better fit for Georgie Lane who has a great deal of the same gutsiness and sheer bloody mindedness as my wife, my Molly. I think Doctor Boring Control Freak Jamie will drive her mad within a very short time. Bloody stupid dumb Elvis. Just one condom or perhaps two or three if he's telling the truth about his sexual exploits with Deb, could have saved all this shit. I wonder if he ever thinks of that?

I remember Molly's dislike of Elvis amping up after he stood Georgie up at the wedding. Her surprising remark to me, some weeks later, that the real reason she was so pissed off with him was that though she' didn't have a lot of time for him from the beginning "…cos he's his own biggest fan," she really believed that he and Georgie were exactly right for one another. What he had done was "bloody fucking stupid, like cutting off his nose to spite his face."

As I ambled back to the ministry, dragging out the last few minutes of sun, another memory of Molly came back to me. It was in the early days of our relationship after we got back from Afghan and Molly had gone out on a girls' night with Georgie and some other female medics. It must have been some night, because I left a large glass of water and two paracetamol on her bedside table after I finally managed to pour her into bed. She had been a talkative drunk when she got home, breaking off into peals of laughter as she recounted a drinking game they played. Apparently, one of the rounds of the game which sounded suspiciously like strip poker, was to nominate the part of their man's body they liked the best, the winner being the person who came up with the weirdest answer. Only once for each part, too. So once the obvious, like cock and balls (separately, Molly said) were "taken" then that was that. No repeats, no pet names, no cheating, at all.

Georgie hadn't long been with Elvis, to the envy of quite a few of her mates.

"Not me though, Bossman," insisted Molly. "they all think I'm pretty lucky to have you. I told them to fuck off and keep their eyes off and their hands to themselves." She sat there on the end of our bed, very pissed and told me very seriously,

"Georgie told them she loved his philtrum. All those silly mares looked at her as if she were cheating, as if it were a new name for his knob." Molly started giggling uncontrollably. "When she stuck both her lips right out as if she had just been shot up with a whole lot of filler and rubbed the ridged part above her top lip she told them that were HER philtrum, didn't they know that, dumb mares and she loved HIS the best of any part of his body, Except, of course for the bits that had already been 'taken.' By them, dirty minded females that they are."

I couldn't resist asking what part of me she nominated, seeing as all the bits she seemed most interested in were gone. She gave me a drunken, toothy Molly grin.

"Nobody had taken arses yet. You know I love yours. I'm too pissed now, so I'll show you how much in the morning, Boss." She keeled over and was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

At least I came back to the ministry with a smile on my lips this afternoon. I hoped it might stay for a while.

 _ **Please keep reading and reviewing. That's what keeps me going with this pesky diary which keeps me awake at night demanding to be written.**_


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

MY KENYAN DIARY CHARLES JAMES

 _ **I'm glad Charles is still making time when possible to record some of his thoughts and feelings. I'm wondering whether a good tactic might be for him to just give Molly the diary to read at her leisure once they are both home. She would get a clear picture of what he has been through. And he**_ _**does say some really nice things about her.**_

I want to be able to tell Molly how hard it was to keep up appearances today as the grim truth about this Abu guy has come clear. I've always been able to contain my emotional responses when I've been in charge. Have had to, really, because my soldiers have been relying on me to handle whatever. That's just part of being an officer, what I was trained for at Sandhurst, what I've done through four tours in Afghanistan and another on the Kenyan border.

I didn't expect my own feelings today. My exterior was calm enough, but inside I've been churned up all day, apprehensive, I think afraid, though that's hard for this tough old captain to admit. To start with, we're not in Afghan or Kenya, I'm not in charge and I'm not even in uniform. There's something about getting up early in the morning, showering and shaving, then putting on my combats, squaring my shoulders and heading out to face whatever the day will bring. It's as if I am saying "Here I am, Captain Charles James, ready and waiting to be in command." Today I grabbed the first pair of chinos I laid my hands on in the wardrobe and a jacket that has seen better days. Luckily I found a clean shirt, I think I look passable though these pants are a bit embarrassing. Molly would give me hell if she saw me in them. I can almost hear her.

"Get them shit coloured strides off, Bossman!" she'd say. "They look like baby crap." Molly has a whole vocabulary of her own around crap. Even in posh restaurants when I'm trying to be romantic.

Right now I am most definitely not feeling romantic or in charge. My job has been spelled out to me. I am responsible for the wellbeing and management of Lance Corporal Georgie Lane as officers of higher rank than me and an assortment of Home Office bods set about managing what could be a major terror offensive on home soil. In Manchester, Lane's home town, where she has spotted Abu, the radicalised Uni student who very nearly killed her in Kenya. Because I am her commanding officer, my role is to support her whilst intel specialists extract what memories she has of seeing Abu, obviously so they can intercept him as rapidly as possible, him and an as yet undetermined group of co-terrorists.

The Ministry folks are pretty focussed on their task. No wonder. As the day has gone by, information gleaned from a variety of sources has led to the awful conclusion that this is likely to be a major incident. Special forces and police Armed Offenders are out in force throughout the city and people are being told to stay indoors, to stay home. SAS squads have been deployed and are scouring the city trying to identify and apprehend a number of insurgents who could be carrying explosives or wearing suicide vests. Anywhere. Anyone. Any time. This is more terrifying even than in the refugee camp in Kenya because at least there we expected that terrorist acts would happen. Here it feels just so random.

To borrow Molly's metaphor, I admit to myself that I am shit scared. While I am talking to Lane, I'm careful not to let her see any of my fear. She needs me to be on top of my game because I witnessed what happened to her in Kenya and my solid, unwavering support of her affirms the reality of her experience and the PTSD that follows. It prevents others from minimising what happened and not taking her seriously.

I've been thinking about my recent encounter with Doctor Boring Jamie. Wonder what Molly would make of him. The more I get to work alongside Lane, the more I see how like Molly she is. Feisty, brave, committed. That plonker (another of Molly's words) would suck the life out of her, try to turn her into a nice doctor's wife, stifle her.

I remember the time I first told Molly I love her. The day we met for lunch in Bath, the day we knew from the outset that the lunch date was just a pretext for meeting to make love for the first time. I recall feeling like a nervous boy as I waited for her to arrive and my joy at seeing her come through the door with a shy but radiant smile. As I told her I loved her, I had no sense that I wanted to own her, to tie her down, to warn others off as if she were now my possession. Then, as now, I wanted her to be brilliant. And she is, my Molly. Sparkling, stroppy, generous, lovely Molly who doesn't belong to me but who is mine because she wants to be and says so.

So I'm no expert at loving, but I suspect that this other beautiful, brave medic needs to be brilliant on a long term basis. She most certainly was in Kenya, and after she takes the time she needs to heal, I think she would lose her spark if she were to give up her career for Doctor Boring. I wonder if there is any way back for Elvis, at all? Has the hurt been so bad that she could never countenance a reconciliation? Because Lane is an excitement junkie, like me, like Molly, like Elvis. That's why we are soldiers, truth be told. It's why Molly and I have such a good marriage. We understand one another's need to be brilliant. Like Lane. Like Elvis would make certain she kept on being. 

Enough day dreaming for now. Back to our briefing. There's every chance that the rest of this day could get very ugly. And I'm not ashamed to say I'm very afraid of what that might mean.

 _ **I won't see Episode 5 till Saturday, NZ time. Am anticipating that Georgie might flick the pair of them off, which would be my preference to a wedding with Dr Boring As Hell to please her mum. I wonder how the terrorist story will play out. PLEASE DON'T HURT CAPTAIN JAMES! Don't really care what you do to the rest of them, Mr Grounds. (Apart from Elvis, I think}.**_

 _ **Please read and review. I have appreciated your comments about the diary over the past month.**_


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

MY KENYAN DIARY: CHARLES JAMES

 _ **I FOUND THIS WHOLE SERIES DISAPPOINTING. It felt a bit like Mills and Boon romance to me, written to a formula and about that old classic, the love triangle. Not a great deal about the Army really, apart from one or two episodes. I wish TG could talk LT into coming back. This second series lacked, from my perspective the chemistry, style and unique storylines of Series 1. And I did NOT like CJ in Dad mode . I have enjoyed keeping him and Molly in the forefront of our memories in this series. Please read after comments about a homecoming chapter. Otherwise, I am done with the diary now.**_

 _ **COMPLETE**_

Haven't found time to write over the past few days. Actually that's bullshit, if I'm honest. Someone needs to be honest about this whole crazy male driven series of events. For me it started back when I allowed myself to be manipulated into telling Georgie she was going to be stood up at the altar. Possibly even earlier, if I'm brutally honest with myself and recognise that there was a kind of vicarious excitement in being a mate of someone like Elvis. From the time we both entered Sandhurst, did I have a yen for a streak of "mad bastard-itis' but for someone else to do the streaking? There's a very entrenched part of me that could very well turn into a boring old fart, as Molly so bluntly predicts, as I get older. It comes to the fore when I get the chance to do exciting things in my personal life, but then step back when I think I might make an arse of myself.

This is, of course, not the more accepted use of the word "arse" which is the part of me that Molly seems most fixated on, bless her very suggestive, no, straight out dirty mind. So here I am again, avoiding the issue, which is basically that I am not an Elvis, nor a Doctor Dull nor even an Abu, the crazy converso. I am rather afraid that these last weeks in Africa and back here again have set me up to be kind of Dad figure to two of these three tossers, plus the lads in 2 Section, above and beyond the normal expectations laid on a commanding officer. Why do I feel a bit like someone out of "Dad's Army" sometimes? Rather more a Sergeant Wilson than a Captain Mainwaring, I hope, though Wilson can be a real ditherer . Possibly because the other soldiers around me could easily be characters in that great old series…Fingers, Dangleberries, Mansfield Mike who reminds me so much of the Ian Primrose character with his clingy mum.

Anyhow, I need to get the last bits of this diary finished before I get home for my very short leave before the lads and I head off to Syria. I would have been happy to take Lane along as medic, but I think she has unfinished business in Kenya. Her need to go back reminds me of Molly's struggle to work out why she needed to return to Afghanistan. I could sense the fear in her when we talked about what the near future might hold for both of us.

I won't ever forget the lunch date we had at Bailbrook House in Bath where, for the first time really, I could tell her that I love her. She could not believe that I had such a clear idea of my feelings for her.

"You don't know me," she had replied, almost as if I would not love her at all once I did get to know her better, away from our life in the army. During my weeks of recovery, I had time to reflect on all that had gone on between us in Afghanistan and since coming home. What I kept coming back to time and again was her youth compared to my age, a difference which she now uses frequently and mercilessly to tease me. The almost decade between us meant that I had had plenty of time to develop a career, to work out what I wanted from the army AND what I was prepared to invest of myself. I knew I had become a competent officer, but somewhat rigid in my views and unbending in the way I applied them with the soldiers under my command. My saving grace, I think, was a sense of humour, which I really needed once I fell desperately in love with this cheeky, brave, beautiful , tiny girl with the East London accent and completely undecipherable Cockney vocabulary. In many ways, Molly saved me from myself. I am so grateful she turned up in my life, cleaning up my often imaginary blisters, trying to understand my fucking terrible jealous streak and waiting out with me to get back to Britain before we could be open with our feelings for one another.

At that lunch date, when I told her I thought she should go back to Afghan to take up a short term assignment mentoring local medics, it was very hard to carry through. Then she asked me

"Don't you want me to stay with you?" I could see the hurt in her green eyes, which are always so expressive in her lovely face. Tears were close to the surface, so I tried again to tell her exactly what I felt.

"I want you to be brilliant." If she was going to make a future with me in it, then I wanted her to have every chance to challenge herself, to grow and learn and to experiment so that she always had a career separate from me. From then on in, Molly and I would need to be apart in our overseas postings. Our relationship would preclude us serving together and It was going to be tricky managing the story about our meeting and being together for the top brasses' satisfaction. Being brilliant, for herself, could mean a very exciting future for my Molly and I did not want to hold her back in any way. That's not to say I found it easy encouraging her to contact her new commanding officer. It was fucking difficult to let her go when I had just found the courage to tell her I am so much in love with her. The last thing I wanted to see was her shouldering her Bergen once again and getting on to a troop carrier to fly thousands of miles away from me.

So when I talked to Lane about what her military future might hold, I recognised in her that same potential for brilliance that Molly had. Even though I would have taken her with us to Syria in a heartbeat, I knew that was not where her growth and her healing were, for the time being. Lane absolutely needed to shake off the demands of three men, each of them wanting to control, own or manipulate her. She needed to be her own person, away from her family in Manchester as well. I think her father understood that need.

That mad bastard Elvis is only just beginning to realise how profoundly he hurt Georgie on the day of their wedding. He was so focussed on dealing with the personal crisis he had to face so suddenly that he gave not one thought, I believe, to the humiliation and pain he dealt to her. I am still ashamed that I didn't tell him "No!" when he asked me to tell her. I should have stepped back and made him front up. I've become aware of just how much he has gotten away with over the years because of his good looks and charm. Lane telling him that she doesn't want him in her life for now is a much needed blow to his ego and will, I think, make him grow up, even if belatedly and just a little bit.

Doctor Dull and Boring would stifle her spirit and bury her in an avalanche of shitty nappies, given that he told her they'd "…better start banging them out." Lane told Molly that Jamie had already put in his order for seven children. Molly's comment to me when she Skyped me to tell me this little gem was to the point.

"Don't you go gettin' any ideas about kids, Bossman, let alone seven little bleeders. Might happen sometime, not yet though. Mind you, I might have to think about it a bit sooner seein' as if we leave it too long, you're gonna be getting' the pension. You know, the old fellas' one." All delivered with one of her cheekiest grins.

What enraged Molly most of all was not the behaviour of either Elvis, who she could see straight through and disliked intensely, or Dr Dull, who she thought was a boring plonker. Abu, the British Uni student drew her special contempt. That he had been prepared to carry out killings in Kenya particularly of innocent women and children in order to get "street cred" in as a radicalised Muslim made us all very angry. When Molly, like all the rest of us, discovered that this was all elaborate head games and manipulation to justify his plotting to kill a Muslim girl who rebuffed his advances, she was enraged.

"It's bad enough looking after the Afghan people what have been hurt by their own home folks. When it's a bloody British fella joining up and doin' 'stuff like this out of spite an' because some girl told him 'No' I get really mad, Bossman. 'Specially when my man and one of my best mates are in the firing line."

I must admit I like her describing me as her man. And that's the reason why I'm bloody glad this terrible bloody African tour and the time spent mopping up back in Britain are fast coming to an end. It's been the least tolerable of all my overseas missions to date and it has been good these past few days to focus on getting ready to deploy to Syria. That place sounds like a real basket case, particularly what is happening in Aleppo right now.

So it's important that we all get some breathing space before we assemble at Brize Norton in two weeks' time. I keep reading the letters Molly and I wrote to one another before she went off to her volunteer stint in Greece. Of course she has had her leave cut and has been sent back to Afghan, given the worsening insurgent action in Kabul. She told Beck she was not happy at being called away from her work in the camps, but from what she said they had managed to get around all the kids at the camp where she is stationed with their vaccines. She also stood up to Beck and said she absolutely needed time with me before I left again, so she has ten days leave, getting home a day or so before me. I think Beck is pretty much up to speed about Molly and me by now.

Just in time to get to the shops and deal with the list I left her. So we won't need to go out for a whole week and can devote ourselves to our favourite personal activities. I'm putting this diary in the mail tonight and it should be put through our post slot just as she gets in from Afghan in a couple of days' time. She can have a bit of a read before I get there and we won't need to waste time talking about it. She's been better than me at emailing, except this last Afghan bit which is classified, so talking that out should be a breeze., knowing what we will both want to be doing with ourselves and one another. And it won't be the current state of military affairs in Helmand Province or Kabul.

I cannot wait to hold her again and I hope she remembers to leave that bloody front door lock on the snip. Can almost hear the noise my bags and boots will make as I drop them in the hallway.

v

 _ **So Charles is content to finish off his diary, popit into a post bag and send it off for Molly to have aread if she wants to I am thinking they are both preferring to read the list of instructions that Charles sent to her some time ago. Molly will, of course be making strategic plans to carry out those instructions, to the letter. I am sure she'll be waiting just how and where he told her he wants her. Sometimes a modicum of control can be really exciting. One just has to pick the time and place and get agreement first.**_

 _ **I am going back to complete my earlier story about the lost and found Afghani women and Molly's reunion with Qaseem and Bashira. THE LETTERS I REFER TO CAN BE FOUND IN THAT STORY. I intend to bring both stories together with a monumental reunion which will need to go onto THE DARK SIDE, the M listings. I will be ready for that in a couple of weeks and it will have a new title, something about Homecoming. Not sure yet.**_

 _ **I have appreciated your support and reviews right throughout the writing of this diary. Please let me know what you think of this last offering.**_


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